


Blessing

by en passant (corinthian)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3104897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But what always shakes up a story, happens — a stranger comes to town.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Not quite historical fiction, in not quite New York City, in some time not quite our past -- Trowa is a street busker and Duo is a pickpocket. Just a few moments in their shared life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, [ClaraxBarton!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton)

He stands on the street corner every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday — his usual spot is next to the newsstand, under the metro overpass where he’s bound to catch the morning commuters, the after church goers and the tourists with loose pockets. The old man who runs the newsstand sees something in the son he left behind, overseas, and always lets him use an old milk crate to balance one leg on, which is almost as good as sitting, really.

It gives him an interesting silhouette, on the days he stays until the sun starts to set. Tall, thin, angular body leaning over one knee with the edge of the concertina balancing on his thigh, fingers pushing and hands pulling.

The bakers, who always head past him on their lunch break — which is eight in the morning for everyone else, but they’re in to work at three and four, to let the loaves rise and rest — like to make up gossip about him. They’ve come to the conclusion that he’s Irish, one spotted some red in his brown hair, the other says his cheekbones must be Belfast brought and another says she’s never heard anyone play the concertina like that except a son of Ireland. Green eyes, definitely Irish.

And, to be fair, _Siobhan O’Donell’s_ is one of the regular tunes that he pumps out on the small accordion-like instrument.

If he’s Irish, though, the lunch-shift workers who take off to catch bites to eat the foodcarts and the Italian-Chinese restaurants that line the street under the metro overpass also gossip — if he’s Irish though, where did he get that ugly as hell dog?

Not that dogs have much to do with being Irish, but it’s decidedly not a dog. That’s the joke in itself, since they all like him even if none of them really know his name, but the neighborhood always takes care of its buskers. They have no time for tourists, except to sell them something overpriced or to smile in that off-center way that one does when a stranger invades their home. The neighborhood is always changing, the city is always breathing and the intersection of where Little Italy and Lower Chinatown are hitting New Dogtown and the artists’ quarter catches new faces every day. So, they all hold onto the familiar ones.

But when the cops came by, the first time, asked to see a permit, asked what he was doing there, asked what kind of spotted dog he had there with bowlegs and a big heavy head and he said — just a mutt, named her Hyena.

That’s the other part of the joke.

Don’t worry officers, she’s a scavenger.

Which is also true. The restaurants offer her cut-offs, even if he has to pay for his own lunches. Almost always Szechuan gnocchi or Guinness beef stew lasagna. It is, for the neighborhood, not a very unusual or ambitious life, but it’s comfortable.

He’s been a staple for five years — long enough for him to grow even taller, for his “dog” to take on some gray and for the police to stop asking about her, they’ve grown used to her, long enough that the bakery ladies say _remember when he was just a boy_ but now on Sundays, when he comes later to catch the church crowds, there’s just the smallest hint of stubble speckling his face. When the newsstand owner’s daughter teases him about it he says, well, Sunday being the Lord’s day, and I’m not supposed to work so I take a day off from shaving. They’re all, fairly certain, that he’s not religious. They all know his name too — call me Trowa — know that he has a sister that performs down on the Theater Row, that sometimes she’ll dance when he plays and that for the past three Christmases he’s bought her new shoes, since she wears her others out so quickly, with the money he earns and she’s gotten him a coat, a scarf and a proper folding chair to sit in when he busks.

But what always shakes up a story, happens — a stranger comes to town.

* * *

He can’t be younger than twenty-three, really, but the bakery ladies call him _boy_ and greet him as they do any stranger with a wink and all affection. They invite him to have scones and coffee or maybe he’d prefer soda bread and tea? They’re quite taken with his appearance, the worn black suit that’s not really fashionable or classy, the high white collar like a priest’s, and, of course, the long braid that falls down past his waist.

“Oh, now, I can’t take advantage of your generosity! Duo Maxwell isn’t that kind of guy at all,” he grins and waves them off — accepts a bagel and lox but only if he can pay them. They find him charming, but they’ve also been the cornerstone of this neighborhood for several decades now and the only thing more suspicious than a charming young man is a charming young man in black.

They’re right to be suspicious, of course.

The tourists that come to watch Trowa play often haven’t seen a concertina before. And, since he was practically born with an instrument in hand (though, it was a wooden flute, carved by his father), it’s not a surprise that he notices Duo Maxwell slipping fingers into tourist pockets while they watch. And, since Duo has been thieving longer than he ever went to school, it’s not a surprise that Duo watches Trowa watch him — and winks, a conspirator’s pact.

“You’re not bad,” Duo compliments, after the third week of acknowledging that Trowa was watching him steal.

“Not bad,” Trowa raises an eyebrow. “Would you be more impressed if I played a little Vivaldi? Jazz? Could cover Gene Austin, if you like.” He pushes the concertina together, though, forcing the instrument to squeak.

Duo laughs. “I’ve got to say, I don’t know much about music, but they all seem to like it. You’re _not bad._ ”

Instead of answering Trowa pulls out a slow Irish air on the concertina, looks at the Model A cars trumbling by, a few kids on bikes, but soon it would be evening and the only people out were going to shows or bars or maybe off to work the night shift. The city rarely slept — only silent on Christmas Day and Easter before church — but people who worked through the night, Trowa had found, didn’t quite have the patience to tip buskers.

“Heh, take this pretty seriously for just a guy who plays on the street,” Duo digs into his pocket, pulls out two dollars — more than the pennies and nickels Trowa usually got from a whole crowd — “Let me make it up to you.” He drops the bills into the old coffee tin next to Hyena. Enough for Trowa to buy his sister Christmas gifts for another year, easily, maybe more if he was frugal with it.

“You’re just an okay thief, it seems,” Trowa answers, but clips the concertina closed and empties his earnings into his pockets.

“Yeah, guess so. I’ve got you to thank for that though.”

“On Saturdays I play down by the park, near the Great Station. In the afternoons the tourists ride the ferry over,” Trowa offers — leaves the offer open. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just hooks his fingers under Hyena’s collar and drags her up. She’s getting old, she might have a decade on any real dog in life expectancy, but even that isn’t long enough.

“Is that an invitation?” 

“Not if you’re going to be mediocre, I hope you’ll take it seriously as well.”

* * *

When winter comes, so does Duo’s prime season. He wheedles and convinces Trowa to head out on the cold days — _you can wear gloves and play_ and it isn’t as though Trowa hasn’t bought a new pair of gloves, thanks to their shared earnings — because people bundled up against the bitter wind with Christmas gifts on their mind always carry more money.

Trowa sits on the milk crate, pulls his knees up close to his body and coaxes sweet carols out of the concertina. The cheerful music draws people in, but their crowding doesn’t offer him any body heat, which is really more the shame.

Duo slides in between bodies, nimbly pulling coin purses, money clips and wallets from pockets, purses, jacket linings.

They take a break just after lunch, it’s the slowest time of day when everyone is hustling back to work. Trowa buries his hands in the fur at Hyena’s back, for once wishing that she was a proper dog and that the coarse fur was full of warmth and not just a reminder that she was in sore need of a bath.

“Don’t look so dour, today’s been great,” Duo grins. He must be immune to the cold, or the long thin black jacket is warmer than it looks. A rosy tinge colors his cheeks, but instead of looking frozen — as Trowa is certain, _he_ looks — Duo just looks inviting, like an advertisement for Christmas specials. And, only slightly disingenuous, though Trowa suspects that’s because he knows Duo’s profession.

“It’s cold,” Trowa sighs, checks his coffee can and puts about half of the money in his pocket. People always tipped better if there was a little in there, but not enough to look successful.

They never came to their usual corners on these days. Instead they go to storefronts and down by the pier which is even worse as the wind blows harder down by the water, carrying salt and frozen mist with it.

Trowa misses his usual haunts, during this busy season. Not that there’s much going on. Int he holidays the family businesses close up, the bakery only opens two days a week for people with Christmas orders or weekly bread. Even the newsstand pulls its shutter closed, waiting for warmer weather, more foot traffic, for the regulars to venture out in the snow again.

“It’s _seasonally chill_ ,” but Duo slides his arms around Trowa, giving him a little extra heat. “We’ll head home early, how’s that? And tomorrow we both have to gift shop, hm? Your sister is coming over and there’s nothing to make for dinner.”

“She’ll bring ham,” because she always brought ham. Even if neither of them particularly like ham, but it is a Christmas tradition. When they were younger and money was harder to come by — before she got her job — they had always wanted proper Christmas dinner. At least Duo likes ham. “But you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, I’m Duo Maxwell.”

Trowa cracks a smile at that, even as he swears he can feel his teeth chattering.

* * *

Hyena dies on New Year’s Eve. Duo pulls Trowa out for celebrations, says he knows a great place to see the ball drop and — well, they can deal with dead animals in the morning. He’s a little too eager and a little too callous but Trowa’s only response is, hyenas have a life expectancy of twenty-five years, and he goes with him.

“I never had any pets, growing up,” Duo explains as they scale the side of the tallest apartment building on their side of the river. One year Trowa and his sister climbed the bridge to watch the ball drop, that year the ball had been entirely made of wrought iron, the papers had lauded and alternatively mocked it. The apartment building was a far more comfortable roost, no need to hook their legs under the metal supports and hope a strong wind wouldn’t blow them off. “I always wanted a dog, though.”

“She wasn’t a dog,” Trowa says and they break into their drink a little early. The lightbulbs of the ball aren’t easy to see, even in the darkness and their vantage point, but it’s good enough. “Hyena, actual hyena.”

“Where in the hell did you get a hyena?”

“Our parents.”

Trowa never elaborates on that and oddly, for all she’s about family, neither does his sister.

“I’m an orphan,” Duo offers. “Sort of.”

“How are you ‘sort of’ an orphan?”

“I didn’t really know my parents, they died, and then I was raised by someone else. I’ve always had a family around, even if they weren’t my original ones.”

“And then you decided to make a living in the city by yourself?”

“. . . guess I should have said had,” Duo leans against Trowa and sighs. They are both, probably, not drunk enough for heart to hearts. Not yet, anyway. “How can you complain about the cold every day we work and not find it freezing tonight?”

“Because we don’t have to be here.”

Duo laughs. “It’s because it’s one of those weird tradition things, isn’t it? You and your traditions.”

Trowa shrugs, doesn’t feel the need to reply to that. Duo finds his traditions odd, but it isn’t as if Duo’s own superstitions aren’t just as odd. The fact that he crossed himself before they climbed up the wall, or his insistence on putting the bed on the eastern wall of the bedroom.

“To next year,” Duo continues, when Trowa is silent.

“To next year,” Trowa agrees.

* * *

And to the year after that.

* * *

The daughters of the women who once ran the bakeries that line the street under the metro overpass have grown accustomed to seeing both men on Fridays. On Saturdays, Thursdays and Tuesdays, Duo works at the stadium so he heads into the city. Mondays and Wednesdays, Trowa lends at hand to the new theater his sister bought and owns.

But Fridays are their days.

The daughters like to gossip about how they always show up together, usually Duo holding the leash of one, or two, or three dogs. Trowa balancing his concertina case, two folding chairs, the coffee tin and a backpack with their lunches.

“Do you ever think, it would be better if we were younger again?” Duo asks, tying the two leashes to the newsstand back wall.

“Feeling nostalgic?” Trowa settles himself, runs a quick scale. “Or bored?”

Duo travels, sometimes because his job asks him to, sometimes because the tiny corner apartment that Trowa bought for a few hundred dollars two years ago is just _too_ tiny and sometimes because they need their space.

Occasionally, Trowa thinks that Duo travels because whenever he returns home Trowa spoils him. They take days off work, they spend more time in bed, Trowa forgoes his weekly traditions of early bread, early market and butcher shopping, to stay at home and make espresso on the stove and bake bread the way his sister taught him — rye, honey, a dusting of poppy seeds. Duo loves that bread.

“It’s romantic to think about how you met your lover,” Duo smirks.

“Hm, is it?” Trowa begins the first few notes of _Organ Grinder’s Swing_. It’s not his favorite song to play, but it immediately makes Duo think of dancing in the kitchen. Of Thanksgiving with the turkey no one particularly likes, Trowa’s sister standing on the couch arm to hang lights from the ceiling because they never get Christmas trees but the festivities run from November to late January for them. “Well, I won’t stop you.”

“And that, Trowa Barton, is why I love you.”

“Just because you’re too troublesome to bother with sometimes?”

“Now you’re just being grumpy for the sake of being grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy at all.”

And then, for the first time in years, Trowa starts a tune that Duo doesn’t know. He’s become familiar with all of Trowa’s favorite songs and even the ones that aren’t his favorite but he plays for the tourists and passerbys. Duo’s learned a lot about music, about musicals, classical, jazz, shanties and Irish tunes that Trowa says — my mother used to sing them — but this one is new.

Softly, almost under his breath and barely audible, Trowa sings along with the concertina. “May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sun shine warm upon your face. May your glass be ever full, may the roof over your head be always strong.” Then he grins at Duo, in that private way they’ve come to share over the years, too, “And may you be in heaven, half an hour before the devil knows you’re dead.”

It’s not really the kind of song a mother would sing to her kids, Duo thinks, but the melody sounds like a lullaby with a lilting jig running through it. Trowa repeats the verse, accepting tips from a gaggle of fresh faced tourists with a performer’s smile.

And, really, Duo gets it. Romantic indeed.


End file.
